Out of the Blue, Into the Black
by StuffsInc
Summary: Set after 3.12 Jus in Bello. Sam's looking for the Colt - he finds a blonde in a motel bar. Slight Sam/Bela, mentions of Dean, Bobby.


It's February when the ice comes, coating Missoula slick and heavy; glittering like diamonds. Branches cower under its weight, reaching down to dance along eaves. It splits trunks, felling trees like silent lumberjacks, blocking roads and cutting off the pass to the highway.

They find the low, mud green motel settled in the crook of the frontage road, the Impala trembling on unsteady wheels on the unmarked detour. Dean checks in, gets them two adjoining rooms around the backside of the long strip of cabins and they slide on iced-over blacktop toward the motel bar.

It's dark and loud; someone's cranked up the jukebox and the music blares out and thuds into the frozen walls. The windows rattle; tiny fractures in the coated panes. Bobby ambles to the far side of the bar, his knees giving him grief in the deep-seated cold.

They line up, elbows resting on the sticky bar, baskets of fries and pint glasses of amber ale in front of them. The crack of the pool table interrupts the steady chatter of locals mingling with the few tourists caught in the storm. It feels good to be out of the car, off of the road.

He doesn't notice her when she walks in, but notices her now; wouldn't recognize her but for the way her eyes peer out at him over the rim of her drink as she takes a sip. She looks calm, but he sees she's torn off tiny bits of her cocktail napkin, rolled the pieces into balls and piled them up on the bar. He uses his own napkin to wipe grease and salt from his fingers, tosses it into his empty fry basket and pushes off of his stool.

He leans a hand on the jukebox, scanning the old flip cards scored with handwritten track lists. She slides into the space next to his hip when she joins him, the silky strands of her wig brushing against his shoulder. Sam clenches his jaw until his teeth hurt, pounding in his temples as she keys in an old Neil Young tune on his quarter.

"Hello, Sam."

She says his name soft and low, with just enough purr to vibrate against his arm when she presses closer to be heard over the music. He turns slightly toward her, blocking Dean's view from the bar.

"Bela. We've been looking for you, you know."

She smiles in a sad sort of way, biting at the corner of her lip.

"So I've heard. It's nice to feel so wanted."

He raises a skeptical brow and she laughs, tracing the stripe of his flannel with a finger.

"Look, I'm in 14. If you want to… talk, meet me there in ten. Alone. This isn't an open invitation, if you catch my meaning."

Sam swallows against a dry throat, wishing for his beer.

"Yeah. I got it."

She smiles again, only for him, and pats his cheek with soft fingers. She looks almost innocent under blond bangs as she turns and saunters around the horseshoe of the bar to collect her bag.

He leaves four credits on the jukebox as he returns to his brother, reaching between Dean and Bobby for his beer. It's warm and burns his throat as he finishes it in one swallow, slides it across the bar and wipes the back of his hand across his lips.

"I'll catch you later, all right?"

He nods to Dean, scans through the hazy bar for Bela as she shrugs into her coat. His voice sounds scratchy; he'll blame the smoke if asked.

"What? The hell you goin'?"

He stops when he follows Sam's gaze, catches a flick of blond hair leaving the bar. A knowing smile and a slap on the back and he turns back to Bobby.

"'Bout damn time, Sammy."

Sam huffs around a forced smile, scratching at the back of his neck in an attempt at awkward. He backs away from the other men; already back to their argument about snow tires on classic cars.

The curtained window of cabin 14 is dark when he reaches it, a dim flickering behind the drapes the only sign of its occupation. He knocks, ice biting into his bare knuckles. She takes a moment answering, most likely making sure he's alone. The door cracks open and he doesn't hesitate, steps inside out of the cold and wind.

She's changed out of her dress, put on what could be called pajamas if they were worn with less purpose. Tiny white boxer shorts and a black tank top Sam tells himself he can't see through. She's doffed the blond wig, draped it over the television that quietly broadcasts the local news. Her own long brown hair holds a kink in it from being done up and she works at it with her fingers as she leads him into the room.

The room is not overly small, but it feels cramped sharing the darkness with her. The bluish light strobes on the uneven walls, old straw mat wallpaper peeling just at the edges. Her suitcase lays open on one double bed, folded clothes stacked under a pink polka dot toiletry case. His fingers itch to rifle through its contents.

"It's not here."

She tosses at him as she turns, levers herself up on the wide window sill, bottom wedged in next to the hissing radiator. Painted toes rest on the seat of the only chair in the place, knees flexing out in front of her as she presses her shoulders against the cold glass.

"You can search me if you like."

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks."

Bela shrugs, tapping her nails on her thighs, blows out a small sigh that ruffles the messy hair around her face.

"Lousy weather we've been having, yeah?"

Sam clenches his hands into fists, crossing the room to stand over her.

"Cut the crap, Bela. Where's the Colt?"

She grins up at him, toes curling into the seat cushion.

"I told you. I don't have it on me. Dangerous thing to be carrying around, really."

He leans down, one hand flat on the wall next to her head, the other on the sill. Stares into her face until the grin falls away. He takes it for some sort of victory until she bats her eyelashes at him.

"I didn't think you the type to intimidate women with your size."

"You don't count."

"Pity."

She stands on the chair, him looking up at her for once, before bounding back to the floor, pushing him out of her way as she heads to her open suitcase. She shoves her hair behind her ear as she leans over the tidy piles, sorting through the folds of expensive clothes.

"Tell me something, Sam. Why are you here?"

He turns around, leans against the small table, fingers gripping the edges. He opens his mouth to speak but she stops him with a glance.

"No, I know, you want to ask why the bloody hell I'm here. But see, I already know why I'm here, and any reason I give you, you'll only take for a lie. So we come around to why you are here. And I don't mean Montana."

The easy answer is that she had invited him, but telling her that invites all sorts of other things he isn't quite ready for. They've been searching for the Colt, which meant searching for Bela. He hasn't really thought of finding just her instead of the gun.

"I don't know. You tell me."

She finds what she's looking for, presses her palm on top of the small book as it rests on a black sweater, her other hand toying with the hem of her tank top.

"Maybe I like you Sam, believe it or not. Dean, he sees everything so black-and-white - you pick a side and you fight. Clearly he's already made up his mind which side I'm on."

She raps her nails on the book, moving away from the bed and approaching him again.

"But I think there's something in you that maybe doesn't believe that. Or at the very least doesn't want to."

Sam clears his throat.

"Yeah? What makes you think that? The fact that I haven't threatened to kill you yet? Trust me, I've thought about it."

She gives him that smile again, private and knowing.

"Had you wanted to threaten me, you would've told your brother I was here the moment you spotted me. As it is, I'm almost certain he has no idea where you've gone off to. Does he?"

He takes the question for rhetorical, not answering but pushing away from the table, taking a few steps to her. The television goes dark and for a moment he can't see her, just senses her as a warm outline brushing against his side. The light flares up again, a commercial loud in the quiet room but he doesn't listen to the words, only follows her strange cat eyes as she circles him, running her hand along his back, pausing a moment, standing barefoot behind him. He doesn't hear her sigh but rather feels it against his arm.

"About that whole getting you arrested thing…"

"Yeah, been meaning to thank you for that."

"I really am sorry. Just terrible of me."

She takes a measured step around him, coming face to face with her fingers resting on his stomach. She tilts her head to the side, looks him in the eyes as she slides her hands up and finds the top button of his flannel.

"To answer your question, Sam, you are here because you are curious."

The top two buttons slide free easily, used to being tugged loose when the car gets too warm with the heat on full blast.

"You don't believe I can help you, but you won't risk it if it turns out I can."

The next three are slower, her fingers slightly cold and the pearly buttons fumbling a bit before giving way.

"And frankly, between you and me?"

She unfastens the last two, the backs of her fingers brushing against the white ribbed cotton underneath.

"I think you like me just a little bit."

He's been staring over her head, hands on his hips, jolts a bit at the last and he thinks he catches her wink at him out of the corner of his eye. When she reaches up to push the flannel down his arms Sam lets her, she's working him and he knows it. The shirt catches at the cuffed sleeves and she tugs, leaning into his chest as she pulls it free and tosses it onto the bed. She steps back a bit, regarding him for a moment in the dark.

Bela runs a finger down the warmed flesh of his shoulder, over the puckered skin beneath his collar bone. She looks up at him expectantly.

"Is this mine?"

He doesn't move but to shift his gaze to meet hers, a slight bobble of his head in affirmation.

"Yeah."

She gives a smile that's more of a frown, studying the pink crescent with her fingers a moment before bringing her mouth to his skin, pressing her lips to the scar. He's fairly certain she doesn't mean it as an apology; he doesn't take it as such, just hisses in a breath and rolls his shoulder away after letting her touch him a moment too long.

Bela sets her mouth in a line, hooks two fingers in the waistband of his jeans, tugging him forward while reaching behind him with her other hand. She finds the .45 he's stuck in the small of his back, having stopped at the Impala on the way to her room. Her bright eyes go dark as she holds the weapon up in between them, safety on and her finger tapping along the muzzle.

"This hurts me, Sam. What do we have if we don't have trust?"

She presses the side of the gun into his chest, his knees buckling and he sits on the edge of the queen sized bed, lumpy mattress an uncomfortable perch. She keeps the gun on him as she goes back to her suitcase, lifts the small book and holds it between her fingers and palm.

"By all rights I shouldn't even give you this. You've done nothing to earn it."

Bela tosses the book at him; he catches it against his chest and looks at the lazily aimed gun. She catches his gaze, rolls her eyes and tosses the gun on the bed.

"What is it?"

"Oh just something I picked up along the way. Forgot I had. Figured you might find it of some use."

She sits cross-legged in the chair, elbow leaning on the table and her chin in her hand. She stares at him as he leafs through the book, watches him fumble with the thin pages filled with dense, flowery script. The Latin swims in front of his eyes and he shakes his head to clear it.

"Couple of incantations, a ritual or two. The part on higher demonic exorcism at the end there might be of particular interest."

He tries to find the passage, his fingers tracing the words, but he can't place the words like he should. There's a tightness in his chest, his breathing has gone shallow and the room feels hot despite the register too small for the room. He looks at her; she's peering at him under her lashes with a slightly amused pout.

"You drugged me."

He can't bring himself to be surprised. She shrugs.

"Oh just a little – had the bartender slip it in your drink. Rather unscrupulous fellow, that one. It's just something to help you sleep for a bit. You do look tired, Sam."

She takes his face in her hands, brushes his bangs out of his eyes and eases him back to lie on the bed. He rolls his head to the side, watches her step out of her shorts. Catches a glimpse of lace trimmed white panties as she puts on a pair of dark jeans, pulls a black turtleneck sweater over her tank top and twists her hair back into a ponytail. She zips up her bag, shrugs into her coat and comes back to crouch down eye level with him.

"It's nothing personal Sam. I just can't have you following me."

He licks at lips that have gone dry; focuses on her face and tries to speak but only manages two words.

"The Colt…"

Bela shakes her head, smoothing his hair away from his face again.

"The Colt is just fine. For some reason you and your brother think you're the only ones with demons to slay. Besides, the one demon you really need to kill? That gun won't touch."

She doesn't answer the question in his eyes, just smiles, presses a kiss to his temple and stands, collecting her suitcase and purse. By the time she reaches the door his eyes are closed, the cold air cooling his flushed face.

When Sam wakes it's just past dawn, ashy light peeking through the sides of the curtains. He sits up, everything aches and his feet are numb from dangling off the edge of the bed. His gun still rests on the bed by his hand; he checks the chamber and finds the bullets gone. The book is there too, tangled up in his shirt. The only things missing are Bela and a bit of his pride.

He meets Dean and Bobby in the parking lot, Dean scrambling over the icy pavement, balancing a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand while pulling on his jacket, key ring clenched in his teeth. Sam squints against the brightening light, taking the coat Bobby offers him.

"Mornin'!"

Dean drops the keys into his free hand, patting Sam on the shoulder.

"Rough night?"

"Shut up."

He climbs into the Impala, Bobby stretched out in the back, Dean at the wheel. Takes the gun from his waistband and chucks it in the glove box, ignoring his brother's questioning look. The small book digs into his thigh through his jeans pocket as Dean turns back onto the road to the highway.


End file.
